Undivided
by redrosemary
Summary: The Crown should be undivided. This was the policy of King Alistair and his Queen Lucilla while they struggle to rebuild Ferelden after the Blight. Their hearts, however, were a different matter altogether. Sequel to "His Queen's Courtship."
1. 1 Mistakes

The King's coronation ceremony was over, as was the Hero's parade. It had been a long and tiring day for the both of them.

Alistair was beyond exhausted. During the Blight he had experienced long days and nights of marching and fighting, in massive plate no less. But the past few days were different. He had been walking around looking _dignified_ and acting kingly, whatever that meant. His humor had been foul the past few days as well.

Being king meant a lot of restrictions, a lot of silly rules and useless formalities. Like today, the day the Crown had to honor the Hero of Ferelden, even if technically, that honorable woman was the other half of that crown. There were speeches to memorize, the right gestures to be made. Posture, too. Alistair had to mind his posture. Head held up high, no crouching in defense, and most definitely no slouching whatsoever, he heard Lucilla's voice say in his head. The royal armor felt off, too, especially as he did not have the weight of his old shield in his back—Lucilla's family shield, to be precise, the one he had always used because she said it was good and it never really let them down.

Eamon had assured Alistair that there were going to be fewer occasions like this. Most days, he would be expected to sit down, listen and on occasion, participate in policy making.

Whatever "policy making" meant was beyond Alistair, at this point. He would have to trust his sort-of uncle to educate him, if Lucilla did not get to him first. He could almost hear her stern voice, telling him what to do, arguing with Eamon, Maker knew what else.

But he knew what he _wanted_. That was a start. Alistair saw how his nation was undone, not just by the Blight but by its own petty differences of class and race. He had to see the silver lining that it was the Blight that had unified Ferelden. And his efforts had been successful. That had begun, with the efforts in Denerim, and if his orders were heeded, in the Bannorn and the rest of the country. He also wanted a more liberal arrangement with the Chantry regarding mages and trade with Orzammar; for all the tyranny that King Bhelen exuded, he at least recognized his allies in the Crown of Ferelden. And of course, Alistair must see to it that the Bannorn and the humans recognize that elves were Ferelden citizens too. The Alienage had to be made better. Tons better. Worlds better. The Dalish could be reasoned with, he supposed, if he summoned Keeper Lanaya and worked out good terms with her. He would have to leave the delicate negotiations with Lucilla: she was the one who had a way with words, not him.

The King wanted to do these, and more. Not to just stand around and look dignified.

What had he gotten himself into?

Alistair walked over to his small bar, intending to drink some whiskey to help him sleep in that ginormous bed his counselors and his betrothed insisted upon "because it suits the King." He found that he liked the burning sensation in his throat.

But the glass had barely reached his lips when a loud knock. He tried to control his irritation as he told whoever it was to enter.

"Your Majesty," a maidservant entered and bowed. She was obviously harassed and scared. "I beg your pardon. But _she_ wants to see you, Sire. She said, immediately."

And there was only one woman who would dare disturb the King at this late hour. He supposed he had to thank the Maker that _that_ woman had already agreed to be his wife.

Alistair knocked at Lucilla's door, and heard her curt voice bid him enter.

Her room was lavish, he had to concede, but not excessively so. Maybe for his provincial and austere taste, her hardwood furniture, four-poster bed, elegantly carved dressers and trunks, and that enormous vanity were already extravagant. But they all suited her; and if Ferelden were more prosperous, he would certainly lavish upon her more of these fine things.

Lucilla Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, was in a state of undress, and at that point her squire had just removed all the pieces of her ceremonial armor, leaving her clad in a thick grey undertunic that reached to her knees. Lucilla's hair was in disarray—one of her two elegant coiled braids was already undone, and she was undoing the other irritably.

The squire bowed quickly to them and scurried off, leaving the King and his betrothed alone together.

It was probably improper for Alistair to be seen with Lucilla inside her bedroom at night before holy matrimony, but they represented themselves to the realm as partners in love and politics alike. Surely, this one night would not be the basis of scandal. And Alistair had seen Lucilla this way innumerable times before; soldiers on the road often did not have privacy.

"What in the name of the Maker were you thinking?" Lucilla hissed when she was sure her squire was out of earshot. "Granting Amaranthine to the Wardens. Of all the Maker's jokes, Alistair—"

"I thought you might like it?" Alistair stammered. Maker, was _this_ what was so urgent that she had to summon him in the middle of the night, while she was in her underclothes, no less?

What was wrong in granting Amaranthine to the Wardens? He had thought it a stroke of genius, and Eamon concurred the moment he had said it. The Howe family deserved no less than the stripping of all their titles and the lands that went along with it. He thought Lucilla would be the first to appreciate it.

"You fool," she said, jabbing her forefinger at his chest, her wavy hair caught in the breeze of her movements.

She was so close, he could smell her breath. That explains her abusive behavior, then. Lucilla was always even-tempered, even when agitated, unless she had alcohol. Then, her fury could be immense. But only ever with him. He had never seen her like this with anybody else.

"You've been drinking," he stated, and he took her hand from his chest, gripped it tightly and led her to her table. "Not that I haven't, Luce."

"Then get us another," she commanded as she sat down. "In the second cabinet to the right. And then you tell me why in the Maker's name did you cede an entire _arling_ to a foreign order."

He saw his betrothed's collection of fine spirits and their glasses. Whiskey, brandy, sparkling white and red wines. He purposefully avoided looking at the sparkling wines; Fereldens, as a matter of principle, did not like anything fancy out of Orlais. But he knew another woman who was really fond of those, one for whom even patriotic Lucilla would drink with.

He tried not to think about Leliana, the woman Lucilla, his betrothed, would be spending her nights with. He had to focus on the rationale behind his granting of Amaranthine to the Wardens.

Alistair chose whiskey almost out of habit, and poured them both a glass. Lucilla immediately drank hers. She smacked her lips lightly, and it seemed that the tension between them was somewhat lifted.

"The Wardens need to rebuild, Luce," Alistair said. "We can't be the only Wardens in Ferelden. We need more. And we need help in rebuilding; we don't know anything about it."

"I'm sorry, Alistair," Lucilla said, and she sounded as if she meant it. Her eyes were kinder now, her voice less shrill. "But you made a mistake. Granting an entire Arling to the Wardens? Who would run it, if we were both at court? Would you invite Orlesians or Marchers to administer an entire chunk of the North? How could we justify this to the Landsmeet? _And why didn't you tell me about it before?"_

"I can rescind it if you want," Alistair said immediately, although he was not sure how. And it seemed to him that his surprise to her—meant to be his betrothal gift for her—was the one that irked her.

Would Lucilla draft another edict which he would just sign? But to whom should Amaranthine be given? And where would the Wardens rebuild? Would the old compound in Denerim have to do?

"I've seen that you've signed the order already, and concurred by your Chancellor, Eamon," Lucilla said. She motioned for him to pour her another glass. "It will not be becoming of you to flipflop on your own orders. Besides, you're right about the Wardens rebuilding. I'm just not sure that Orlesians should be doing it."

"Luce, I really thought that stripping Howe's lands and giving them to the Wardens to rebuild was wise," he said.

"It's proper to strip Howe of Amaranthine, yes," Lucilla admitted. "But granting _his_ lands to foreigners, I'm not sure. _Who_ are the Wardens who would rebuild in Amaranthine? Are they our loyal subjects? Will they bow down to the authority of the crown?"

"Then I will go in Amaranthine, as Warden-Commander," Alistair declared.

"You're not thinking straight, Alistair," Lucilla said, and this time she poured her own drink. "You're the king. You can't leave court for that long. You don't work for the Wardens anymore."

"Neither can you, Luce," Alistair said. "In case you forgot. You've a crown." He lightly touched her temple and smiled.

 _Must this man joke about everything?_

Lucilla stood up, walked to her window and turned her back on Alistair. In Denerim, the moon shone full and beautiful, casting a soft glow on the quaint little houses and structures of the capital. In that light, it was as if the Blight never happened.

"Did I make a mistake removing Anora from that throne?" she whispered, wishing that Alistair would both hear and not hear her.

Lucilla respected Alistair, that was for sure. She knew how Alistair was with his people. How he put their needs before himself. How he thought he knew how he could make things better. How he was ready to die for them, over and over again. How he was her conscience, the voice of empathy and compassion for the people when she proved herself to be too harsh.

Can good men become good kings and princes?

 _Am I a fool for daring to replace Anora with myself and Alistair?_ Lucilla thought. _Alistair, with his kind heart and empathy for their people. With his sense of justice, of what was right and wrong that was sometimes lost on me and the noble leaders of our country. And Anora, who never went out of her palace, never spoke with commoners although she herself was, the Queen who never knew what or whom she ruled. She was the queen of her own little world. I—and Alistair—are going to be the joint rulers of Ferelden and everything in it._

"We're both tired and intoxicated, Luce," Alistair said, following her. He held her lightly from behind, and he could not resist kissing her hair. Lucilla did not flinch. Emboldened, Alistair held her tighter, his hands just below her breasts. How he longed to touch her beneath that thick, grey fabric! He felt his groins stir.

"You are a good man, my King," she told him. "And for better or for worse, you are the King, Maker preserve us."

"And you will counsel me, right?" he asked her. "Guide me, my light. What is the proper thing to do?"

"Very well," she answered. She allowed him to hold her for as long as he wanted to—he would be more pliant, more attentive to her this way. But she thanked the Maker his hands did not dare fondle her breasts—good, he knew where he stood and he respected her.

"The Crown should be undivided," Lucilla proposed. "All policies would be decided jointly by us before reaching the Landsmeet—or anybody else, for that matter. We present an undivided front before all our people. No surprises, no secrets between us. Do you agree?"

Alistair ignored the fact that Lucilla was already clinging to power at this point. So soon, but not unwelcome. She was wise and learned in the ways of the nobility and the people.

"That is wise, provided you wear your half of the crown," Alistair said. _As long as you are mine and I am yours and this crown unites us_. "You really will marry me, then?"

"How many times must I say yes, Alistair?" Lucilla said tenderly. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, Alistair, I will marry you."

 _So this is how our marriage is going to be like,_ Lucilla thought. _He will be putty in my hands for so long as I allow little intimacies._ But why was she feeling tender towards him at this point?

Why did she suddenly find him attractive? And more importantly—was he having cold feet?

 _Maker, no_ , Lucilla thought. In the intoxicating haze of whiskey, the exhaustion of the past few days, and this discovery, Lucilla wanted to lean on Alistair. Wanted to love him, even. So strong, so different from Leliana's soft and supple body. Alistair, her golden king, her man through and through. And always, his heart was in the right place, even if he sometimes needed a firmer hand in his ruling. That could be learned in time, she thought, but a kind heart was something one was born with.

"Kiss me." It was not an order. It was an entreaty, a gentle lover's plea. One that Lucilla could not refuse, not this time.

In the pale moonlight, Lucilla thought Alistair looked handsome. Regal. Charming and irresistible. The lofty king, the only man worthy of her, the only _person_ worthy of her hand in marriage.

Also in that moment, Alistair thought that Lucilla looked innocent and fair, her dark eyes shining and her mouth oh so enticing. His heart raced. His knees felt weak but strong at the same time. He wondered what she was seeing in him. In another world, one without Leliana, could Lucilla have loved him? If he were not king, would she even notice him?

She did not move. But Alistair could not resist. He tipped her chin and pressed a soft kiss on her lips, all thoughts, except that of his love for her, cast aside.

Lucilla tasted of whiskey, and now he craved it more than ever. No, he craved _her_ , whatever she tasted of. He wanted more from her, and his heart leapt when she tilted her head, as if wanting more.

He no longer cared if Lucilla thought of another while his lips were upon hers. He cupped her face with his left hand while his right sought the small of her back. Lucilla's tongue sought his, and to his surprise she was holding him too with her strong arms.

He wanted to stay in that moment forever.

"I love you, Luce," Alistair whispered in between kisses. His arms still held her tight. "Come to bed now, dear wife?"

The spell broke, and Lucilla turned away from him immediately.

Lucilla was disgusted and angry with herself. She promised that she would not toy with Alistair's emotions. She owed Leliana and Alistair that. Besides, her marriage with him was only for convenience and position, so that the crown would be stronger than ever.

"Not yet," Lucilla answered, gently pushing his arms from her. She felt so guilty, suddenly unworthy of this man who loved her. _I am not yet your wife, even if I am already the other half of the Crown. And the Crown is all about business, nothing more_. "But we will discuss the Amaranthine situation tomorrow."


	2. Secrets

It had been weeks after Lucilla's own ascension and coronation as queen, but she felt she had been that for so much longer. Ever since defeating the Archdemon, truth be told, ever since the King— _my husband_ —ascended to the throne and began needing her by his side.

The words _my husband_ seemed so foreign when referring to Alistair. True, they were friends. She regarded him highly, and he did so too. She watched out for him, and not just because her fate was tied to his. Lucilla entered his room at night and sometimes kissed him on the cheek as she bid him good night, before she headed for the hidden passage that connected the royal bedchambers to a smaller room where Lucilla slept with Leliana.

Leliana made Lucilla's blood quicken, her heart race, and her womanhood tingle. Lucilla always looked forward to nights with her lover, when they would simply discuss what had happened in Leliana's day, how Lucilla missed her, what new thing Lucilla wanted to give Leliana. Some nights, it was a Chantry amulet made of solid gold. Other nights, it was lace lingerie that she would ask Leliana to wear before lovemaking. More often than not, it was aromatic bath salts that the two women use in a nice warm bath at the end of each week, when Lucilla and Leliana, holding each other, would find joy and peace in a large wooden tub filled with hot water.

Lucilla always asked about Leliana's day. But she never allowed Leliana to return the favor, always saying that she left matters of state in her study and never allowed them in her bed.

"Don't worry your pretty head about my day, beautiful," Lucilla cooed in bed as she undid Leliana's robes. "Separation of Chantry and State."

Leliana melted under her lover's ministrations. Lucilla was like clockwork, with no real variations in how she made love, but Leliana always, _always_ got excited with her: for the Orlesian bard, love was her aphrodisiac. The fact that it was Lucilla, her beloved Lucilla, who held her and made her hers. And Lucilla loved it whenever Leliana leaned against her, allowing the Queen to gently nibble on her lover's earlobe while her hands did their magic.

"Like it?" Lucilla purred as she rolled Leliana's nipples with her fingers. "What about if I do this?" she whispered as her hand travelled to her lover's legs, teasing Leliana until she begged for her release. And always, Lucilla would bring Leliana to her climax with her fingers or her tongue or both, and then always cuddling with Leliana before the bard returned the favor and made the Queen scream with delight.

The Queen liked the way Leliana moaned when her hands and tongue were all over that luscious, luscious woman. And Leliana never feigned her cries of pleasure—truly, Lucilla was a very attractive woman for her, who pleased her, more than pleased her. Oh, there were things she wished she could try with Lucilla: though they have shared another woman before, it never happened again. And that time that Leliana brought with her a strange toy resembling a phallus, Lucilla lost all interest in lovemaking that night.

"Never that one, my beauty," Lucilla said, in a strange tone Leliana could not place. Was it shame? Fear? Apprehension? Or plain dislike?

Leliana never asked why, because she was afraid of the answer.

* * *

While Leliana occupied the Queen's nights, Alistair had her during the day. Before the sun rose every morning, Alistair enjoyed Lucilla's company alone. He prepared their breakfasts, or had them arranged, so that when Lucilla woke up food was ready in his chambers. He knew his wife was not at her best when roused from sleep, so he took care that no one would ambush her before her mind was fully awake. And he relished seeing her this way, his Lucilla, still half-asleep as she walked back to his chambers from that hidden door, splash her face with icy water from her washbasin, dress up with gowns that she kept in a wardrobe in his room, and finally sit down with him to eat.

"Why do I know where you'll always be?" Lucilla asked one morning. "Eamon asked where you were yesterday, and I said you were in the barracks. I didn't even know you were there until he asked, but I felt it."

"That must be the Taint, dear wife," Alistair answered. The bond that always kept them together. "The dark, buzzing feeling that alerts us of darkspawn?"

"It links us to the hive mind," she said, surprised that she guessed it. She dropped her fork, and then quickly picked it up again. With care, she modulated her voice, as if her next words meant nothing to her. "I thought I dreamt it when Urthemiel threatened to hurt you and Leliana, during the blight."

Lucilla did not want Alistair to see that she was discomforted by the fact that Urthemiel had actually threatened to kill Alistair slowly and to turn Leliana into a broodmother before her eyes. She regretted saying what she did, and turned her eyes away from Alistair's probing gaze.

Too late. Alistair had seen the way her face blanched when she spoke. Ever since Ostagar, he had seen how this highborn woman could guard her face most of the time, but still slip up when her loved ones, such as her family, was mentioned: her face would momentarily lose color, her eyes widen for the briefest moment, or her grip would be tighter or would lose its strength. Yes, those were Lucilla's tells, and he was seeing them now.

He was not stupid: he guessed what atrocities Urthemiel spoke to Lucilla. He had never told Lucilla that the old god swore to violate his queen before his eyes as his country burned. Lucilla never need know that: Urthemiel was dead and could no longer fulfill his threats.

"Some Wardens are so sensitive, they could detect what kind of darkspawn was near," Alistair said instead. "The older ones like Riordan also said that they could understand the Archdemon. But with just two of us now, and no darkspawn nearby, I could feel _you_. The Taint in you. In time, we'll be able to tell each other from other wardens, too, if you already can't."

"Marvelous," she answered with a laugh, trying to cut the tension. Urthemiel was dead, she made sure of that. "So the Queen could be used as a device to tell if the King has gone on some mad adventure."

"It goes the other way too," Alistair said, jovially so that she would no longer be troubled. "If the Queen decides to run away from her King, why, I could tell exactly where our forces would find you. And then I could have you tried for breaking the King's poor heart."

"Alistair—"

"I'm kidding, Luce," he said. "The Taint now only means that we'll always find each other. Nothing more."

Two hours later, Queen Lucilla was back in action: clad in a simple but elegant grey dress, not a hair out of place, eyes alert and shrewd. Between themselves, they discussed the Amaranthine situation again, whether the Crown should just rescind its grant to the Wardens or not. Pursuant to their policy of the undivided crown, they must first discuss what to do before having it tabled for discussion with the highest nobles of the land and eventually the Landsmeet: the Arling of Amaranthine could not be without a ruler indefinitely.

They were at a stalemate until this morning, when Alistair discovered that Lucilla would always try to protect her family. He now knew how to outmaneuver Lucilla.

"I told you, you can't leave Denerim to rebuild the Order," Lucilla insisted. "To the Void with you being my senior Warden. _I_ slew the Archdemon, therefore I outrank you as Warden."

"I know you're strong, my dearest _wife_ ," Alistair said, emphasizing that last word. Lucilla did not use the Theirin name in signing all matters related to the Wardens—admittedly, those were very few affairs—even if she used the Theirin name in everything else.

"But Amaranthine is a pit of vipers," Alistair continued, despite his wife's icy glare. "I don't want you there, no matter how many Archdemons you slay."

"The Landsmeet will revolt if we secede Amaranthine to an Orlesian, I told you that," Lucilla reasoned, adamant that no foreigner would ever become an Arl of Ferelden. "Do you realize what an uproar that would be? All Loghain's fears would come true, we'll lose our power, all our goodwill, everything we've rebuilt in the past months. Alistair, don't be a fool."

"It's not a _secession_ , Luce, it's a _grant_ ," Alistair said, trying her patience even if he had now seen Lucilla's point that granting Amaranthine to a non-Fereldan Warden was a very bad idea. "For them to rebuild. But the administration of the Arling, its day to day activities—"

"Goes to a seneschal, I know, whose actions may be vetoed by whoever sits as Warden Commander," Lucilla said with finality. "The Warden-Commander gets to be the Arl. He would control taxes, levies, administration, everything in Amaranthine. Do you remember what happened to Sophia Dryden? Unless we have another Ferelden Grey Warden whom we could convince the Landsmeet as worthy, it has to be me or you. And _you_ , my husband, can't leave the throne for that long. You have to keep the Bannorn in check, see to it that they stop murdering each other."

And yes, now that Lucilla enumerated the reasons why it was such a bad idea in the first place, Alistair chastised himself for not seeing those things before. No matter. Everything would be fixed now, as soon as he uses his advantage.

"Remind me why we can't build the Wardens in Soldier's Peak and cede Amaranthine to Highever, like the Teyrnir of Denerim is to the Crown," Alistair asked.

"Don't you think about getting Fergus involved in Amaranthine, Alistair," Lucilla threatened, venom in her voice.

"Then why is it all right for Lucilla Cousland to stroll around in Amaranthine while it's not for Fergus Cousland?" Alistair asked. He knew he already convinced Lucilla that the Wardens would rebuild in Amaranthine now. But he dreaded losing her, and resolved that no matter what she said, she would only be gone for three months.

"Because I'm much stronger than him," she stated. "And if you weren't aware, I'm using your surname now. Please. I'd rather risk myself than you or him. You're the only family I have left."

"Very well," Alistair conceded, surprised that Lucilla held him in the same regard as Fergus. His heart swelled: _so she cares for me after all_. "But you'll only be gone for three months. Make new Wardens. Appoint a successor. And go back home. In that order, Luce, for three months only."

"Trust me, my husband, I don't want to spend that much time in Amaranthine myself," Lucilla stated. "Now summon Eamon and Fergus."

Teyrn Fergus and Arl Eamon, the two most trusted counselors of the Crown, were at first hesitant to send the Queen to Amaranthine but had seen the wisdom behind it after a long day of suggestions, rebuttals and debates. They had also agreed that the Landsmeet need never know that the Queen was gone, until after the entire affair was wrapped up. And as long as Lucilla settled Amaranthine and Warden matters in three months.

"I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be forced to choose between the safety of my sister and letting Orlesians hold an Arling," Fergus admitted. "What of the other Wardens?"

"The Orlesian Empress has sent her Wardens via sea," Eamon informed them. "They would reach Amaranthine ahead of you by about three days, Your Majesty."

"Then give the order of the Warden-Commander," Lucilla said. "They are to investigate this 'Thaw' and report to me when I arrive what it entails for the arling."

The Queen did not want to admit that she and Alistair knew far less than their Orlesian brethren. If she had her way, Eamon and the rest of the nobility would never find that out. Lucilla would also never concede that having a more senior foreigner as Warden-Commander of Ferelden would be better than even her in terms of leading the Wardens, because _they_ knew Warden secrets better than her or Alistair. But no, neither Lucilla nor Alistair were willing to pay the price for that. Orlesians would never hold another part of Ferelden, not while they breathed.

Eamon and Fergus bowed after their meeting was adjourned. Lucilla watched the two of them go, and a dark thought entered her mind.

Was Eamon vying for a Teyrnir?

The Teyrnir of Gwaren was still available. After the death of Loghain and the imprisonment of Anora, there were rumors in the Court that Eamon was playing to be declared Teyrn. This did not go well with Lucilla: she disliked Eamon's… easy-going policies with Orlesians.

She decided to voice this concern to Alistair; she never doubted her husband's loyalty to her. Not while he loved her above all.

"You're being paranoid, Luce," Alistair told her. "Just because he's married to an Orlesian."

"It's not just me who says that," Lucilla answered as she batted her eyelashes at him. She decided to play coy with him; she would now exploit his weakness, just as he had hers. "The rest of the Landsmeet say that behind your back, my husband."

"And you know that how?" Alistair asked.

"Hush, my handsome king, a lady never tells her secrets," Lucilla answered. She closed the space between them, cupped his face and kissed him passionately in the mouth _. Distraction achieved_ , she thought, Alistair never expected this.

"Very well, dear wife," Alistair said, still pleasantly surprised at the kiss but knowing that it was probably orchestrated. He wondered what his wife was playing at, but decided to go along with her plans. "Eamon has Redcliffe. He will always have Redcliffe."

Lucilla smiled at her triumph. Her kiss, that carrot-stick approach, had achieved in distracting Alistair from his very important question: how did she know what Eamon was up to?

She regretted the deception, but did not find the kiss disturbing. In fact, she would not have been disturbed in kisses less chaste than the one she had given him: Alistair was not hard to please, and did not displease her either.

She knew, because Eamon's staff frequented taverns, bordellos and whorehouses where her spies were abundant. Truth be told, ever since Lucilla won the trust and loyalty of the proprietors of _The Pearl_ and _The Gnawed Noble_ , and ever since she did Slim Couldry his little heists, she had ready access to the vast network of information from whorehouses, taverns, and secret guilds of the underworld. Men often whispered secrets to the ladies of the night, or drunkenly shouted them as brags in order to gain the rented admiration of whores and other equally drunk patrons. Pickpockets knew more than mere petty thievery. Tavern keeps shared more than scandalous gossips.

Oh, that was just the tip of the dung heap. She wondered if Alistair knew of Zevran's little field trips all over the country. Probably. Did he suspect? He should, but he was polite enough never to ask why, for instance, the Arl of Denerim, Vaughan Kendalls, had died three days after the Archdemon fell from a mysterious blight sickness. With a poisoned darkspawn dagger in his gut. Oh, Lucilla hoped he died a horrible and painful death, after what the Alienage elves told her about that spoiled brat lord—and after how, after many years, she still remembered the way Vaughan leered at her when she was very young. If Alistair had found out, he probably would have plunged the blade in Vaughan's gut himself. Not very kingly, but now the topic was moot, and Alistair need never sully his name for her.

Speaking of Zevran, he should be back from his mission now. Lucilla would have to pay him a great deal of gold—but never from Ferelden taxpayers' coffers, only from her own stash of jewelry plundered from ancient dragons and ruins. If Zevran was successful, her stint in Amaranthine would be much less dangerous, and Eamon's influence in court would be diminished by _her_.

But only if Lucilla could get to _her_ first. Or was it too soon? Should the Queen have to check Eamon's ambitions herself meanwhile?

Yes, probably. Zevran's missions and her own position would be jeopardized if she revealed her hand too soon.

One day, Alistair would know how she knew things, should know the extent of the reach of her dark half of the crown. Would know the midnight deals with the nobility and commoners alike. Would be expected to continue this network and continually gain their respect, high regard and fear, through bribes and the promise of more. Always, the promise of more. But not yet. Alistair was still too kind, too pure, too innocent in the ways of the powerful and influential. Let the man have a taste of power first, for him to appreciate it, before he found out its nastier side, the terrible burden of keeping power. But until then, Lucilla would protect him from it.

She owed her king that.


	3. 3 Fraternal

Fergus was awaiting his sister, the Queen, outside the doors of her study.

The meeting between the Crown's most trusted advisors—himself as the Queen's sister, and Arl Eamon as a sort of father to the King—was over. He breathed a sigh of relief: there was no true danger to Ferelden at this point, and Lucilla was just going to Amaranthine to personally assess the so-called darkspawn threat in the area, make new Wardens, and return to the palace immediately.

Personally, Fergus would much rather let Amaranthine rot, after what its last lord did. But of course it could not happen; it was still an Arling, and a vital part of Ferelden. And because his sister was the one going as Warden-Commander-slash-Arlessa, he pledged some of the troops of Highever to her command. They were more loyal to her anyway than they ever had been to him.

Fergus was about to leave for Highever. There were many pressing concerns from home—he had to rebuild, after all. He had to assuage the freeholders that he was worthy of their loyalty, to hold and preside over the local court, to ensure that the Teyrnir was functioning as it should be. But he needed to do something for Lucilla first. Was it because of duty? Loyalty? His own mixed feelings towards his sister, the last surviving member of his family?

And why did he still blame her for surviving? Shouldn't he love her because she was all who was left to him?

The subject of loyalty was curious for Fergus. He never had an inclination for power and politics like his family did, and he had always preferred to live quietly and in private. He disliked the life of a courtier, alternating between the local court in Highever and the royal court in Denerim. He seized this chance when he was sent on a diplomatic mission to Antiva—after concluding negotiations with Antivan merchant princes, he sent his advisors home to Ferelden and told them to tell his father he was not returning.

Thereafter, Fergus met and married Oriana, the loveliest woman he had ever seen. He intended to live out the rest of his life with her in that exotic land, but two months after their son was born, no less than Teyrn Bryce himself appeared at his door. The Teyrn took one look at Fergus, his wife and his son, and then plainly said that they were all going back to Ferelden, no questions asked.

Back home, a warm welcome awaited them—as if Oriana had long been Fergus's intended, as if she were not a foreigner but another daughter of Ferelden. But later that night, in the privacy of his father's study, his parents informed him and his sister about the consequences of his actions.

"It's what you've always wanted, son," Eleanor had said. "You'll have a life of your own, a modest income as Lucilla's general but you will be out of the messy world of politics."

"I will announce that Lucilla will inherit in the next Landsmeet," Bryce declared. "But until she is married and has heirs, you, Fergus, will still be counted in the succession."

"Father, that's not fair!" Lucilla cried. "Fergus is the firstborn, he should go first."

"Silence!" Bryce barked, unusually harsh. "I did not raise and educate you both to desist your duties."

Fergus and his sister had never heard such anger in his voice, and Fergus realized that the welcoming feast had simply been his family putting on a show to avoid public disgrace.

"Lucilla, you will marry a _Fereldan_ lord," Bryce roared. "You still have the luxury of choice, and time. But you will inherit Highever—unless you would prefer it to pass to another. Fergus, your wife will abide by all our local customs, and your son raised as befits our House, but you and your son will never have a claim on the Teyrnir once Lucilla marries and produces children."

Fergus and Lucilla mumbled their agreements that Highever belonged to the Couslands. They both stared at the floor until their mother assured them that everything would be alright.

But what Fergus heard from the Teyrna was that he and his sister had no true freedom in their lives.

* * *

Fergus's musings were cut short by the sight of a red-headed woman carrying a lute. He wondered what Lucilla had seen in this… Leliana. True, she was beautiful. Fair-skinned and blue-eyed, a face to die for. A delicate frame and a certain grace in her steps. The woman was wearing a modest dress that made her look neither like a harlot nor a prude. But her blue satin shoes—high-heeled, frivolous and open-toed—clearly indicated that she was not from Ferelden.

"Your Lordship," she greeted him with a small curtsy. "Shall I tell Queen Lucilla that her noble brother is waiting for her?"

Fergus found her Orlesian accent harsh and intolerable. "Do not bother yourself with that," he told her, a little too harshly perhaps. "My sister is with her husband at the moment."

With a wave of his hand he dismissed the irksome woman, but it did not escape him how her eyes very briefly flitted dangerously when he said "her husband."

 _So there was some truth in the rumors_ , he thought. _An Orlesian bard, sleeping in bed with the Queen of Ferelden_.

With any other noble, he would not have minded. He would perhaps whisper it to Lucilla so that she could take advantage of the information. But if Lucilla herself was involved… This needed to be addressed swiftly.

The door of the Queen's study creaked open, and the King emerged, his face flushed, his other hand leading Lucilla out. Fergus greeted the king and queen, his eyes noting the joy in Alistair's eyes and the indifference in Lucilla's.

"Your Majesties," he said politely, and he turned to Lucilla. "Sister, if I can have a word with you. In private."

"Is something wrong?" Alistair inquired, noting Fergus's grave face. "Is it about Amaranthine?"

The king pressed for details, anything that might endanger Lucilla's impending trip to Amaranthine as Warden Commander. Alistair's grip on Lucilla's hand tightened, and Fergus noted the aggressive protection he was extending to his wife.

Fergus shook his head, and assured the king that it was a trivial family matter. Nevertheless, Alistair could not shake off his apprehension as he let go of Lucilla's hand.

"I'll leave you too, then, and see you at dinner," he said curtly, and pressed a kiss to his wife's cheek.

Fergus bowed to the king, and then asked Lucilla to return to her study. He locked the door behind him.

"What in the world are you thinking, Lucilla?" he hissed as soon as he was assured of their privacy. "Dallying with an Orlesian, and a _bard_ no less! A spy, a harlot!"

Lucilla's eyes widened for the briefest while, though her composure remained.

"Fergus, I think the castle didn't hear you, shout it out louder," Lucilla mocked him. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"Don't play coy with me, pup," Fergus threatened. "I've seen that chantry spy sneak near your room."

Fergus had seen that familiar stoic expression—blank face, pursed lips, disinterested eyes, hands folded delicately, head held up high. It signified distress, how to get out of a scenario Lucilla did not like, or how to avenge herself from some imagined slight.

"Very well, brother, if you demand the truth I will give it to you," she spoke flatly. She walked towards her chair and sat, crossing her legs ostentatiously. "Once upon a time, a highborn child went out into the wild world outside their family's lofty castle. That child discovered love in the arms of a foreigner, who offered them a world so different from what they were used to. Eventually, however, the child had to return home, and face their duty: but that child did not want to abandon that wonderful love. _Does that sound familiar_?"

Fergus realized he was approaching the problem wrongly. Lucilla was defiant, and she was using his own past as a weapon against him. But she shouldn't: this conversation was about the danger Lucilla might not realize she was in, from which Fergus would defend her at all cost.

"Pup, it's not that," Fergus said, his voice softening. He was not Lucilla's enemy. "I'd just make you see things more clearly. Gossip is rife among the banns that you're sleeping with the enemy. That you and your husband are puppets of the Empress—"

"—that a wicked Orlesian is poisoning the royal marriage and that is why the Queen has not conceived, that a chantry spy is secretly in cahoots with the Crown to sabotage and sell Ferelden, that the Empress of Orlais has sent a red-head seductress to invade Ferelden when her armies could not," Lucilla rattled, enumerating the same gossip that her spies had reported. And dealt with—not as effectively as she would have liked.

"Pup," Fergus said, emphasizing their father's fond nickname for her, "you know the consequences of this. Why do you insist? You married a man who clearly loves you, and you squander his love, and what's more, endanger yourself and him."

"And you, of all people, know duty," Lucilla spat. Her upper body was already leaning in Fergus's direction, even if she remained sitting cross-legged on her chair. "You married the woman you loved and let me take the consequences."

"I _married_ Oriana, and I never hid her like a scandalous secret," Fergus retorted. "I gave up Highever for her. I did not take the Teyrnir, marry a noble's daughter, and keep Oriana at my side. I gave her and our son a decent life that we were all proud of."

Fergus could not keep his voice stable. Images of Oriana flooded his mind: of her deft hands preparing poultices for the soldiers and the sick, those same hands caressing him or wiping his brow after a long, hot day. Of her and their son, playing in the garden in the morning and teaching him how to read in the afternoons. Of presenting her to the people of Highever, who warmly welcomed her and Oren. Of their passionate nights, when she secretly bragged of skills and special herbs she had heard of from the other Antivan merchant girls.

Fergus wept openly, and Lucilla stood up to give him her handkerchief. She patted him on the back until his guttural sobs subsided, and he regained composure.

"I'd give anything—" he began.

"—to have her back, I know," Lucilla finished his sentence. She understood his grief, as she shared it too. But Fergus had always been softer and more sentimental than the rest of the Cousland family combined, Oriana and Oren included.

"No, pup," Fergus corrected her. "To have all of you back. You, training Oren how to fight with a sword. Oriana fussing, Mother agreeing and sometimes giving pointers. Father approving."

Lucilla sighed, torn between her love and grief for her family and knowing that they would never come back. Was there a point in grief? Should they rather honor the memory of their parents, of Oriana and Oren and the rest of Castle Cousland, by making sure such a thing never happens again? And what did Lucilla's love for Leliana have to do with the siblings' duty?

She understood where Fergus was coming from. She knew the rumors about Leliana herself—and she had ordered her agents to quash it with all ferocity, to replace it with variations of "how the king and queen truly loved each other" or some other silliness. But sometimes she wondered if her spies believed those rumors themselves. Was it truly time for her to let Leliana go? How could she let the love of her life slip away?

It was so unfair. Fergus found love and avoided his duty to Highever. After his first mission abroad, he came home a married man, and their father and mother did not oppose the marriage to some lovely foreigner. Fergus _knew_ love, he could openly declare it to the world, and he was free of the burden of their noble name even if he reaped all of its benefits. Not like her, who had seen the fall of their House, tried to avert it in vain. Heard the last, desperate gasps for breath of their father, lying in a pool of his own blood. United this country when it was ravaged by the Blight and Loghain's civil war, and then married a man she did not love so as to help him consolidate power. And her only consolation during all this dark time was the love of yet another foreigner, whose voice soothed her and calmed her soul.

Was this Fergus's vengeance, his anger, that Lucilla survived when Oriana did not? Why would Fergus oppose it when Lucilla finally found love?

"There are other kinds of love in this world, pup," Fergus said, as if reading Lucilla's mind. "A mother's love for her daughter, when she buys her daughter time with her own life. A father's love for his son, when he gently guides his wayward son home. A husband's love for his wife, when he kisses her cheek or holds her hand at night. Or a brother's love for his sister, when he tries to knock some sense into her."

Lucilla scowled, and though she understood Fergus at last, she would not suffer letting him know.

"You're the only one left to me now, pup," Fergus continued. "I need to take care of you, and to do that, I must advise you properly. It may seem unfair, but you have to do what you must with your Leliana—unless you and your husband would rather lose your crown."

Lucilla understood, and because it was Fergus she was with, Fergus who had known love and loss, she allowed her tears to fall.

She was grateful that she was leaving for Amaranthine in a week.

That would buy her more time to reconsider her next move.


	4. 4 Devotion

"I would have thought you'd go with Luce to Amaranthine," Alistair told Leliana. "Will you visit her there?"

Leliana ignored the hint of smugness in Alistair's voice: it was he, not her, who kissed Lucilla goodbye before the palace gates and the royal guard that accompanied him and the Queen.

"No," Leliana answered. "The Chantry sent for me."

They saw the entourage turn at a corner, effectively hiding Lucilla from their view. Leliana started to move away.

"The Grand Cleric couldn't spare you a month or so?" Alistair asked, curiosity and disbelief in his voice. "Couldn't you have refused? I'd be more comfortable if you went and guarded Luce, you know."

What the King said was true. Leliana always could have refused the Grand Cleric and opted to travel with Lucilla to that far-off arling. But she did not feel obliged to discuss this with Alistair. Besides, Leliana did not know how well Teyrn Fergus Cousland confided in his brother-in-law; the man had made his displeasure at her presence near the crown and his sister known.

"I can't refuse the Chantry," she lied, wondering if Alistair knew better. Leliana had witnessed how shrewd the man could be, how he hid his mind behind his jokes whenever he shrugged and looked stupid.

"There's that," Alistair said, and he turned to her. "Look, Leliana. I know where I stand. I know what she likes, who she loves. I just want her to be happy and safe, because that's what she deserves."

"She's neither happy nor safe in Amaranthine, if you ask me," Leliana retorted, stung. "But she has to cover up for your mistakes, doesn't she? Because she loves this flaming country."

Alistair opted to be the better man in this argument. Lucilla going to Amaranthine as Warden-Commander in order to rebuild the Grey Wardens was not his mistake or shortcoming. It was something either he or Lucilla had to do, otherwise the Fereldan Wardens would be at the mercy of foreigners yet again. Also, if there were any shortcomings from the Crown, it was from Lucilla's other half—though she was an effective ruler, she also ran the risk of having her affair with an Orlesian bard discovered, to the detriment of the undivided crown.

"She'll only be gone for three months—" Alistair began. He immediately regretted talking to Leliana, but he had to make this right.

"Yes, I know," Leliana grumbled, not wanting to continue the discussion.

"She loves you, Leliana," Alistair said sincerely. "You're terribly lucky for that."

"You gave her your crown," Leliana hissed, her voice already unstable. "She does not forget that."

Alistair felt irked, even humiliated, by Leliana's ungratefulness. The temptation was increasing. It was within his power and perhaps duty to banish Leliana forever, to rid the Crown of its other half's greatest danger. Fergus had warned Alistair about the dark rumors in the Bannorn, about how an Orlesian bard was so close to the Crown that the threat of Orlais was imminent once more. But Alistair would not hear of it. He would not deprive his wife her greatest joy. He would have Eamon and Teagan address the issue, until Lucilla returned and dealt with the matter herself.

In his heart, Alistair knew that there was no assurance that Lucilla would love him if Leliana was gone—on the contrary, it might even drive Lucilla away from him.

He watched Leliana turn her back on him.

* * *

The meeting took place at the Denerim Cathedral, which was one of the first buildings restored in Denerim. Leliana remembered how Lucilla had scowled when she ordered it, but decided that the people needed what comfort and inspiration they could get from only the Chantry.

"We are pleased at the rebuilding," Revered Mother Perpetua said, her old eyes shrewd. Revered Mother Perpetua had stayed in the city with its citizens during the final battle with the Archdemon, offering her aid and that of the Templars under her care to restore order. She, together with the allies of the Crown, had worked tirelessly to ensure order in Denerim. Grand Cleric Elemena, however, was a different story: she remained with the few frightened and cowardly nobles in their lofty refuge in the outskirts of the capital.

Leliana had marveled at how the Crown had its allies in the Chantry. Then again, she knew she should not: Alistair had ties as a former Templar, and Lucilla had done a great service to the Chantry during the past year.

"But the Crown must not involve itself with the mages," the Grand Cleric Elemena said. "Kinloch Hold should have been annulled, its mages put to the sword."

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Leliana interposed, even as Mother Perpetua opposed the Grand Cleric. "The Knight-Commander had discretion—"

"No doubt under the coercion of Warden Lucilla," Elemena spat. "Ser Gregoir had sent for the Rite of Annulment, but promptly withdrew it when that woman arrived."

"Knight-Commander Gregoir acted of his own free will, and Queen Lucilla and King Alistair had nothing to do with it," Leliana reiterated, her voice icy and commanding. "Your Grace would remember who wears the Crown in this country."

"So tell Her Majesty that she should not interfere with matters of the spirit," Elemena cackled. The adjective was not lost in Leliana; clearly, the Grand Cleric feared and hated the Queen more than the King. "And remind His Majesty that he once took an oath to serve Andraste. That crown on his head does not remove that oath."

" _All men are the work of the Maker's hands, from the lowest servants to the highest kings_ ," Leliana recited. "I can assure Your Grace that the Crown does not forget this. Nor are they ignorant that their work is for the Maker's children. And the deployment of the mages to settlements where there are outbreaks of disease—didn't Andraste say that _magic is meant to serve man_?"

The Grand Cleric's eyes flashed dangerously. The Crown, no matter who wore it, always had to be balanced. The former Teyrn Loghain had helped a maleficar escape for his own ends. Who knew what this new Queen Lucilla and her husband could do?

"I do not need an ex-initiate to recite the Chant for me," she warned Leliana. "And would you please enlighten me, Sister, why the Chantry was never formed in Orzammar?"

"King Bhelen opposed it," Leliana lied smoothly, sure that this was what Lucilla would do. In truth, Lucilla never even brought it up to the dwarven King, nor to the Assembly. She simply ignored it. It was probably not her wisest decision—or not. Lucilla never told her about her plans.

"She crowned the King of Orzammar—" Elemena said, voice raised.

"The Paragon Branka crowned the King of Orzammar," Leliana lied again. "Your Grace, I am sure that the Crown feels flattered because of your high esteem. But even they do not command the Dwarves, who are a proud and distinct people."

Mother Perpetua looked at the two women, and wondered why a mere Chantry initiate would defend the King and Queen so ardently. She decided to bury such thoughts, and instead focused on finding a compromise: the Denerim Chantry could use the assistance of the Crown, not its enmity. She remembered that it was the present King and Queen who had upheld order in their country and stayed with the people—things that the Chantry should also have done.

The three women knew that trade with Orzammar did not necessarily equate that the Crown was also having a share in lyrium—it might mean the trade of _other_ goods, such as cloth and furs in exchange for ores, which could help Ferelden. And the Chantry did have considerable interest in the cloth merchants' guilds. What truly bothered the Grand Cleric was the idea that the Crown could do things without consulting the Chantry first.

"Hush," Perpetua said. She took a look at the red-haired Orlesian woman, and another at the Grand Cleric. "We extend our appreciation to the Crown. We also support the rebuilding of Ferelden, and if the mages' support is needed, the _Chantry_ will gladly lend their aid."

Leliana bowed to the two women as the meeting adjourned. She politely accepted a quaint dinner with the Revered Mother, even as she noted that the Grand Cleric did not join them. Leliana expected a continuation of the topic earlier, but Perpetua preferred to discuss other things.

"Why did you leave the Chantry, Sister?" the Revered Mother asked graciously. "A _unique_ mind like yours could be of great use in the service of the Maker and His Bride."

"Ah, my lady, but I continue serving the Maker and His Bride." She was a master of answering without really answering. She had also noted the curious use of "unique" in Perpetua's question.

Leliana could feel Perpetua's gaze. What did this old priestess guess, or hear, about her? Did she report to anybody other than the Grand Cleric? A noble, perhaps, one of Lucilla's enemies?

"You do not need to fear me," Perpetua said. "I am not your enemy. Or of your mistress. As long as you do the Maker's work for the Maker's children, I will be glad."

Leliana wondered at the term the Revered Mother used, but decided to think about it later: the Grand Cleric was the foremost problem. The woman was second only to the Divine, and though the position was not as regarded in Ferelden as in Orlais, she still wielded considerable influence. Nevertheless, the Grand Cleric was a fallible human… and she could be toppled with the support of the Revered Mothers. Leliana made a mental list of all the places she had visited with Lucilla when the Blight was rampant. Surely, the Revered Mothers of those places could be considered allies of the crown… yes. Leliana would seek them out, make them see Lucilla's plans were for the betterment of the people. After all, wasn't the Chantry founded on such principles?

Leliana resolved to do this for Lucilla. She muttered a quick prayer to Andraste to keep her beloved safe.

* * *

Days later, Leliana returned to the palace to look for the King and tell him about the Chantry. Leliana knew that this was what Lucilla would have wanted, would have done under the circumstances.

Leliana found Alistair in the armory, taking out his old armor and weapons. Despite his lofty status as King, and the sheer number of servants and squires serving the Crown, Alistair still preferred to put on his armor by himself. Leliana admitted that this humility was rather remarkable and admirable.

"Your Majesty, what's going on?" Leliana asked, genuinely curious.

"I'm going to Amaranthine," Alistair said. "There are… unsavory reports on the road."

Leliana steeled her face. She did not know how to react; Lucilla was a strong woman, one who could take care of herself well, but even the strongest warrior could fall prey to cruel fates. Was the King preparing to lay siege to Vigil's Keep? Was Lucilla in danger?

And why did Lucilla tell Alistair, but not her?

"Luce is probably all right, don't worry your pretty head," Alistair said kindly. "But those blockhead nobles better be reminded of who wears the crown in this country, and who rules that arling. Do you want to come along?"

"No, it's alright," Leliana said, remembering Fergus Cousland's knowing glare. "Your Queen needs you, my King. And I need to apologize for my words earlier."

"Apology accepted," Alistair said immediately, smiling. "And in private, you don't need to be so formal with me. You sure really don't want to see Luce?"

"I really can't, Alistair," Leliana reiterated, but grateful for this agreeable turn of fate.

Leliana decided to change the topic. "Actually, the Grand Cleric wants me to tell you that she's not pleased with how the Crown interferes in almost everything, including the mages and the lyrium trade. I have the papers here."

"That horrible woman!" Alistair sighed, and then jested some more. "But really, she needs to understand that mages are of enormous help in our efforts. We're hardly in a place to turn down the help of willing allies."

"I'll remain here in the capital then, and tell her," Leliana said tersely. Just because they were on good terms now did not make them friends. "Lucilla will want me to fix this, for her. And if I can, I will."

Alistair smiled, appreciative at Leliana. He patted her on the arm, thankful that Lucilla's dalliance was not purely for nothing.


	5. 5 Change

Lucilla did not receive the welcome she expected from Vigil's Keep. Not that she expected to be as warmly received as she would be in Highever, Denerim or Redcliffe in Amaranthine, the ancestral homeland of the Howes. She had few friends in this region; after the massacre of her family, she doubted all the oaths of fealty and allegiance of the banns of this area. But the lack of any welcoming party whatsoever, and the dark tingling sensation that burned through her even as she saw the dark silhouette of the Keep, told her that something was terribly, terribly wrong with Amaranthine.

Lucilla dealt with the darkspawn, deftly hiding her immense fear at the threat of the intelligent new breed that attacked the Keep with a mixture of haughtiness and disgust that that Keep had allowed itself to be taken at unawares. She rescued the seneschal, a man called Varel, and then chastised him for the lack of proper defenses. In her heart, she scoffed at the Orlesian Wardens for having allowed themselves to die at the ambush, but was somewhat relieved that with their deaths, all fears of foreign influence over the arling were eliminated.

She was thankful that she reached the Keep a day ahead of the soldiers from Highever, and thus spared them from an almost certain death, but she felt a twisted elation that the last of Howe's men had died in the darkspawn attack.

In the coming days, Lucilla discovered that the arling was not much of a mess, if one removed the darkspawn attack and the deaths of the Orlesian Wardens and the Denerim recruits. The former was probably for the best, but the latter bothered Lucilla greatly. With Oghren as her only new Warden, Lucilla contemplated recruiting the apostate Anders, the fugitive Nathaniel Howe and whatever other castaways she could find buffer the dwindling number of Wardens without putting the ridiculously small number of soldiers Amaranthine still had or the forces from Highever in danger of dying from the Joining.

Lucilla had promised Leliana and Alistair that she would only be gone for three months, and she had honestly thought she could do it in even less. She was a strong Queen born to solve problems of administration, could have handled disgruntled nobles and malcontented farmers, trade troubles, racial divides between elves and humans, even civil unrest and warfare, not with ridiculous ease, true, but with ruthless efficiency.

But sentient darkspawn? This was totally unexpected and they terrified her: these inhuman monsters were now intelligent, could concoct plans as devious or even more than any humanoid foe, whose blood was poison... She resented the way that her missives to other Warden outposts went unanswered, and was terribly displeased with Mistress Woolsey and the First Warden giving her aid in form of coin only. As if the Queen of Ferelden did not have the resources of her own country at her disposal!

One week passed, and Lucilla found herself clutching a glass of whiskey as she sat in her bed, assuring herself that she could end the darkspawn threat as surely as she could manage the arling and the Grey Warden order. She would never admit it, but she felt particularly lonely. Everyone in the Keep was either far beneath her rank or she distrusted.

Maker, did she miss Leliana. Lucilla's beloved could have brightened her up at any time of the day, no matter how horrible things could get. Leliana certainly did not have the answer to the darkspawn threat, but she did calm the Queen's soul with her voice.

She drained her whiskey and closed her eyes.

"Hush, sweet lady," Lucilla imagined Leliana's voice as she lay in her hard cot, a far cry from her luxurious bed in Denerim. "Sleep. Tomorrow you shall find the answers, but tonight you need rest. Tonight you have me. Tomorrow does not exist."

Lucilla's hands travelled between her legs as she thought of Leliana. _Mmm_. She summoned the image of the most beautiful woman in the world, playful and mischievous, clad in black lace lingerie, and then removing it agonizingly slowly…

The seneschal interrupted her thoughts with an urgent knock.

"Pardon, my Queen, but I think you need to know that guests are arriving shortly," Varel said reverently, fully aware of the lateness of the hour. "Very important guests."

Lucilla felt irritated. "Who is so important as to rouse _me_ from my sleep?"

Varel need not have answered.

Lucilla's libido was replaced with the familiar dark tingling sensation that she had know for every single day in Denerim. Alistair had come to her.

Lucilla barked instructions to Varel to assemble the guard and rouse the servants. She was not displeased to hear that it had been done, but she grumbled at the fact that she couldn't very well go out in barely a nightdress. So she quickly wore the finest dress from her small wardrobe, donned a rich fur cloak over it, and fixed her hair in a neat bun.

She shut the doors to her room and was glad that no one noticed her brisk strides towards the gates. She scanned his company, and suppressed a scowl when she did not see the familiar head of red hair or the slim silhouette in stylish leather armor.

She descended from the steps and greeted her husband.

Lucilla alone did not bow to the King, and among his large entourage only he did not bow to her either. They were equals, and warmly received each other as such.

"I'd ask why you swooped in on me here, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth," Lucilla whispered to him as she embraced him.

"Then don't," Alistair said, his voice light despite his exhaustion. "We need to discuss things." He offered her his arm, but instead she interlocked her fingers with his.

Lucilla had never felt so alone until this point, when she realized how comforting it was to have loyal, steadfast Alistair at her side.

 _What had she done to deserve such a good man?_ she thought. _And where was the love of her life? Why had Leliana not so much as written a letter?_

Lucilla's study in the Keep was spartan, with an austere chandelier which she lit herself, her and Alistair's portraits tacked to the wall, a small bookshelf, an unlit brazier, and a modest table and two chairs five feet from the window. The full moon, however, cast a soft, almost ethereal light in the room.

If it were not for the distressed state of Amaranthine, she would have been very angry indeed at coming to her now. Lucilla knew the state of things with the Bannorn and its core problem: there were precious too few citizens to work and provide for the needs of the country. Many Fereldans had sought refuge abroad, and the lands to the south were reportedly poisoned by the Taint. Alistair needed to address those as surely as Lucilla needed to address the darkspawn threat in Amaranthine.

Alistair made Lucilla recite on the problems of the Keep and the city, without omitting a single detail. He wanted to verify from his wife the reports that came from their northern allies as well as Lucilla's agents in Denerim. Though she was not pleased that Alistair made her agents report to him, she was nevertheless impressed at his cunning and resourcefulness.

 _Perhaps he was a good king,_ Lucilla mused _._ _Perhaps it was the right decision to put him on that throne._

"I can spare you the soldiers I brought," Alistair said finally. "Some coin, too. And Master Wade to help you outfit your forces better. Before you ask, no, I have adequate forces at home, ready for whatever disaster even _you_ could think of, short of an invasion of Orlais."

"Orlais would never dare such an open act," Lucilla said out of instinct. But she saw the worry in her husband's eyes. "Thank you for coming here, my husband."

"If that happens, you and your forces would be called straight home, you know that," Alistair said. "But as things are, they're yours to command. I wish I can do better, I wish _I_ can be here—"

"No, they are more than sufficient," Lucilla said stoically, never betraying her elation at this addition. With additional troops loyal to the Crown, money and Master Wade's arms and armors, her chances in Amaranthine were better. Yes. Her mind was already reeling at what she could do with these additions: she could perhaps finish everything within three months.

"You're welcome," Alistair said, smiling. "I want you home soon. You know how I fall apart without you, right?"

Lucilla chuckled. "Yes, I do. And I am a wilting flower here in Amaranthine. I need the comforts of my palace, not this keep."

Alistair looked at Lucilla. She had a lot of things on her mind, a lot of plots and things that made him sometimes regret being king. But he trusted her: after all, she did get results. Denerim was crime-free. The nobles kept in line, and despite the Blight, many areas still produced a decent enough harvest for the rest of the kingdom. Circle Mages were sent with their Templar guards to the Bannorn, healing what they could of the land and the people. Militias and mercenary groups were disbanded, and instead absorbed into the Royal Army directly under the command of the Crown. How Lucilla managed to secure their fealty was beyond Alistair, but it certainly did not hurt that she had dealt with most of them and saved them during the Blight.

"Our policies earn enemies," Alistair warned. "But you're especially vulnerable here, because you're a Cousland... Be very careful, Luce. Zevran thinks an entire cell of the Crows would be hired to get you soon."

"If the local banns had that kind of money then rebuilding the entire Arling would not be a problem," Lucilla said dismissively, so that her husband would cease worrying. "Thank you for telling me that, my husband. I will be back home soon."

She meant it as a discharge. But her actions implied otherwise—she sought his hand and deftly interlocked her fingers with his, searching for the warmth and solid comfort only someone she trusted could bring.

Lucilla suppressed her tears—of relief that she was not without allies in her herculean task, and of the comfort that Alistair was there, to ward off her loneliness, at least for this night. Alistair, instead of Leliana. Where in the Maker's name was Leliana, when Lucilla needed her the most? Why was Alistair here in her place?

She had resolved that Alistair would never know of her tears, if and when they should come. She kissed him to distract him from her weakness, which she thought was already written all over her face. She held him tight, as if afraid to let him go, and he held her back just as strongly.

"Let me go now, dear wife?" Alistair said, a playful lilt to his voice that belied his intention to leave. "I must return to Denerim."

"No point waking up your guard now, husband, you need to spend tonight in the Keep," Lucilla answered breathlessly, kissing him again. But this time, she was unable to hold the single trickle of her tears from her eyes.

Alistair wiped her cheek, and noted that as he did so, she cast her eyes downward in shame. But he tipped her chin and forced her to look at him in the eye.

"Never be ashamed in front of me, Luce," he whispered. His desire was overwhelming, but he had to let her know, lest she think of this encounter as nothing. "I love you. I'll always be here for you."

Lucilla pressed her head against his chest. She had never felt more vulnerable, or more protected.

"Spend the night in my bedchambers." It was not an order, but a request, even if Lucilla said it in her usual authoritative tone: she had to mask her longing for companionship, with the familiar steel of her heart and voice. And in the pale moonlight that illuminated her study, she thought again how handsome her consort looked.

"Luce, are you sure?" he asked.

"No," she breathed, never caring about anything at this point. She wrapped her legs at his waist, fully aware that this way, he would not be able to resist her. "But do it anyway. Love me, my king. I am yours for as long as you are mine."

There was a desperation in Lucilla's voice that Alistair had never heard before. It increased his desire for her, his longing to know her intimately.

But the king would not consummate the royal marriage in a mere table, where they would be uncomfortable. He insisted on a room, in a proper bed, and she acquiesced. He would dearly like to hold her.

Lucilla was frenzied, which surprised him. She removed his armor with alacrity, throwing them to the floor and never caring that the loud clank of metal against the stone floor echoed noisily throughout the keep. Finally, she allowed him to remove her own clothes.

"I care not if they hear," Lucilla said defiantly, inflaming them both. "We are married."

Lucilla pushed Alistair on her bed—more of a cot than a bed, really, with its hard mattress, heavy sheets, a fur blanket and two stiff pillows. It was a far cry from their respective four-poster beds Denerim, but this lowly thing would have to do in the urgency of the moment.

Her eyes feasted at the sight of her naked husband. He was well-formed and well-endowed, and his years as a warrior certainly did him favors.

"Like what you see?" he teased her, as his hands caressed her breasts. "I know I do."

Lucilla had never felt this aroused before. Not even with Leliana. She could feel her excitement enhanced when her husband touched the inside of her thighs but not her womanhood. Impatient, she grabbed his hands, and only then did they work their magic. He was inexperienced, but he picked up from her quick instructions. She gasped at the size of his finger and its strength—it was deliciously different from the love of a woman, and she found that she liked his audacity immensely.

His finger went deeper inside her. Lucilla gasped, kissing him desperately, her hands playing with his member in turn.

"Take me, my husband," she commanded him, fire in her eyes.

Alistair complied. He removed his finger from her slick wetness, never removing his eyes from Lucilla's. And with a haughty smirk, he pinned her to the bed and plunged deep inside her, causing her to moan his name in ecstasy for all to hear.

Alistair would have had climaxed much earlier than Lucilla would have wanted, had it not been for a certain vigor he did not know he had. He kept on pounding and touching as Lucilla cried in bliss. Her orgasm was also a very pleasant surprise for him: though he had imagined this a thousand times, nothing compares to actually seeing her in ecstasy and hearing her breathless gasps.

Lucilla had never looked more beautiful. Her long dark hair was draped elegantly on her pillow, her face was flushed, her eyelids were half-shut. She pouted her lips seductively, as if beckoning for a kiss.

He indulged her, first kissing her lips and then moving to her neck, her ears, her nape. It made him swell with pride, the way his wife held him and mewed in pleasure. But soon, Lucilla's eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed into an evil grin. She climbed atop him, as if asserting her dominance, sating her passion and her pride. Alistair could only grasp at her hips, letting her have her way with him, until both of them were truly spent and Lucilla collapsed at his side.

Alistair had never felt this utter contentment before, and doubted that he would ever feel this way again if he was not with her. Lucilla was truly his other half: it was only with her that he felt whole, complete. And he had felt how much Lucilla had needed him, had depended on him. Lucilla would always come back to him—or he to her, because they were two halves completing each other, the two halves of the undivided crown.

The cot was narrow. He did not mind. It was his excuse to hold her as they slept.

"I love you, Luce," he whispered as he kissed her lips softly.

"I love you too, Alistair," Lucilla answered sleepily, her eyelids fluttering, her lips forming a smile.

Alistair watched Lucilla fall asleep. With his wife in his arms, loving him because of his strength, and because she could rely on him, he decided he would assert himself more, both in matters of court and in matters of the heart.

* * *

Lucilla kissed Alistair goodbye in the morning, and the look that she gave him implied that everything between them had now been changed.

"I love you," Alistair had told her. "I'll be waiting for you at home."

Lucilla knew she had to settle things in Amaranthine swiftly.


End file.
